


kintsukuroi

by firetan



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Forgiveness, Guilt, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Vizard!Urahara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 23:51:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14800310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firetan/pseuds/firetan
Summary: Kisuke weaves plans into his plans like the layers of atoms making up every known substance in the world, constructing overarching plots that lie on millions of varying foundations and if some of them are more brutal than a normal shinigami might deem necessary? His morality has always been solidly grey, nobody will look twice at more blood on his hands. An assassin will forever be an assassin at his core, and the monster within him — the monster thatishim — yearns to give this story the ending it deserves.





	kintsukuroi

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to BlueShadow on discord for beta-reading this for me!

A small, stubbornly selfish part of Kisuke doesn’t want Ichigo to go train with Hirako and the Vizards. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t trust them — he does, insofar as Urahara Kisuke ever really allows himself to trust another person — but there’s something in him that burns hot and jealous over the thought of someone else taking his student. 

Whenever that part of his mind rears its head, Kisuke politely excuses himself and escapes into the underground training room, either to meditate or to destroy things. Maybe it’s not the healthiest coping mechanism — Soul King only knows there probably aren’t any ways to deal with this sort of thing that could be considered remotely within the realm of ‘healthy’ — but in Kisuke’s opinion it’s far better to destroy a few boulders than accidentally lose control in the middle of the Shōten and cause possibly irreparable damage. The latter had happened a few times, in their earliest years of exile, and the memory of the fear on his dearest friends’ faces had haunted Kisuke for at least a decade after.

At least after the first few years Yoruichi had stopped flinching away whenever his eyes flickered dark and golden, whenever the furious need to act stole the breath from his lungs. Tessai had taken far longer, but that was understandable — it had been his duty, after all, to seal them behind kidō barriers whenever they lost control, to wait and watch them beat themselves bloody and unconscious every time the monsters inside won the fight for dominance. He didn’t need to do that much anymore — not with the others in full control of themselves and living far away. Not with the kidō wards Kisuke had built over the course of a long, sleepless week, affixed to the very foundations of the Shōten and keyed to react whenever his Hollow reiatsu percentage hit higher than was safe. Freed from jailer duty, Tessai had re-learned how to look him in the eye again sometime around the 1950’s, but Kisuke would never quite forgive himself for the fact that it had taken even that long.

(Because after all, this is his fault.  _His_  fault, not Aizen’s, because he’d been confident enough that his solution would work but not so confident as to test it on the Vizards themselves without a trial run first. Because he’d already caused enough damage, and didn’t want to risk making the same mistakes a second time. Kisuke can still remember the horror on his once-Lieutenant’s face when she realized what he was doing and the sound of Yoruichi’s scream when even her shunkō couldn’t break through his barrier. The result had been better relationships with their inner Hollows in the end, at the cost of one more skull mask and decades of broken trust that may have never truly mended.)

(He’d avoided his past mistakes only by making new ones.)

So Kisuke knows, knows all too well just like he knows everything so much more clearly than even he wishes, that training with Hirako and the others will be  _good_  for Ichigo. That in all likelihood, they’ll be better for the boy than he has a chance of being – for all his intellect, most of the Vizards have him beat when it comes to experience and, more importantly, leadership — and it’s probably best for Ichigo to be away from him. 

He knows, but he has to tell himself time and time again, from the moment he sends Ichigo off to Soul Society to the moment he returns, because his mind has a wily way of trying to convince him to make the wrong choices when it comes to his personal weaknesses. When it comes to the things (and people) that make him horribly,  _humanly_  selfish. 

_‘You corrupted him, you know.’_  It’s been so long that Kisuke doesn’t remember what Benihime sounded like without a metallic rasp to her once-dignified voice. Doesn’t remember what she looked like without a crown of bone covering her gaze. When she speaks to him, it reeks of betrayal.  _‘Oh, Kisuke. Look what you did to that child. So young, and now he’s going to end up just. Like. You.’_

“He won’t.” He tells her, even though he knows it won’t do anything to soothe the pain still rooted in their shared heart. “He’s stronger that I ever was.”

Every time, Benihime laughs a ruined laugh and caresses his deepest, darkest thoughts with the touch of a lover.  _‘You can keep telling yourself that, Kisuke. You keep believing in that little boy, the precious weapon you’ve been raising until you can fire him at Aizen Sōsuke’s shriveled, black heart. And every time you see him, broken and bleeding, you’re going to remember that you made him this way.’_  She curls back into his subconsciousness, fading to little more than a dull glow, and leaves the impression of a bitter smile in her wake.  _‘Remember that it is your fault— he’s become a monster just like us. Just like you.’_

Kisuke doesn’t often sleep at night, and the least of all when Benihime speaks to him.

He throws himself, instead, into plots and plans. When the arrancar come to Karakura to attack, not once— or twice— but  _three_  times, Kisuke swallows his fury and steps into battle with his zanpakutō unsealed, and forces every sliver of Hollow reiatsu back under his skin where no-one but him can feel it boiling. Pastes on a smile and an easy laugh, two tools more key to an assassin’s repertoire than any blade or poison. If anyone sees through it, notices the brittleness, they say nothing — and Kisuke can’t even find it in himself to be grateful of the fact that his secrets are no longer anyone’s chief concern.

He weaves lies and misdirections at every corner, creating a veil to shield these young children from what he’s turned himself into (and they’re  _so very young_ , Kisuke can still see the innocence persevering in Inoue Orihime’s bright smile, in Sado Yasutora’s desperate determination to prove himself, Ishida Uryū’s refusal to accept the loss of his powers as a finale  — can see painful innocence in the furious defiance of Ichigo’s every breath, and gods but even Kisuke would have never wanted to condemn them to this sort of life). But he can’t protect them from everything, knows that it’s simply impossible and — even more — that they won’t win if he tries to let them remain sheltered, so when Inoue is kidnapped he builds them a garganta and lets them run headfirst into a hollow world. Lets them run ahead, and remains behind because even if the innocence of these children must be a sacrifice for the sake of victory, Kisuke  _can_  and  _will_  do everything within his power to avoid making the rest of Karakura town into another.

And yet, as always, Aizen finds a way to almost step past his plans, the margin so close that an uninformed player might think he’s been surpassed — but Kisuke knows better. Kisuke weaves plans into his plans like the layers of atoms making up every known substance in the world, constructing overarching plots that lie on millions of varying foundations and if some of them are more brutal than a normal shinigami might deem necessary? His morality has always been solidly grey, nobody will look twice at more blood on his hands. An assassin will forever be an assassin at his core, and the monster within him — the monster that is him — yearns to give this story the ending it deserves.

Aizen steals into the true Karakura town, and Kisuke makes sure to follow a fair distance behind. The trap he has put into place is waiting to spring, and he would like to be there when it does. 

But even more, he’d like to be there in the aftermath. 

In the aftermath, to give Ichigo what answers he can, and to catch him when his body falls limp and decides to make best friends with the ground once again. Kisuke already knows what’s happened, or can at least guess — Ichigo’s reiatsu is fluctuating, flickering high and low in ways that it definitely shouldn’t be (and this, this is Kisuke’s fault, he set Ichigo on this path and now they are reaping the fruits of it). He’s there in the aftermath to shunpō to the Shōten with a boy ( _a sacrifice_ ) unconscious in his arms, and then back through the Dangai to reunite with the rest of Soul Society’s forces and restore Karakura town to its proper place. Let all of the human lives wake up and never know how close they came to vanishing. 

Benihime’s voice is little more than a whisper in the depths of his mind, tinged Hollow-black and blood-red and whatever color scorn might take.  _‘Just a boy, Kisuke. And look what we did to him.’_  

Guilt has never been a flattering look on him, but Kisuke wraps himself in it like a threadbare cloak that can’t keep out anything but the disappointment in others’ eyes. Ichigo is unconscious in his shop, reiatsu wavering like a candle beside an open window, and he throws himself into helping where he can because Urahara Kisuke makes plans and solves problems (because that’s all he  _can_  do, now, with the weight of a hundred years of bad decisions pressing his shoulders into the earth every second he stops to breathe). 

The hours turn to days, days turn to weeks, the most gravely-injured are treated by Captain Unohana and the rest are brought back to the Fourth. Inoue works herself ragged helping where she can, healing wounds and restoring damage, while Sado offers up his help to whoever needs a strong arm the most. Hirako and the others return to Naruki City with the promise that Hiyori will be returned to them safe and sound once she’s sufficiently healed, Isshin returns to his clinic and his concerned daughters, and Tessai returns to the shop where Ururu and Jinta have been waiting. Yoruichi leaves to wander, as she always has over the past century.

And Kisuke finds himself cycling back to the boy sleeping (if only it was just sleeping, if only the world could be so kind) in the back room of the Shōten. Already, Ichigo’s reiatsu has nearly vanished, like an entire color disappearing from the visible spectrum (Kisuke wonders at how he never appreciated the ever-present weight of it until it’s gone — Karakura town feels unbearably light now). When it’s clear that everyone else seems to have things mostly under control, he takes time ( _selfish_ , but of course he always has been) to disappear back into his lab — he has a new gigai to build, after all.

(In another world, one where Benihime had never been broken and warped into a darker, more cynical self, Kisuke might not have bothered. He would have considered the guilt that was his due, acknowledged it, and then brushed it aside for the sake of necessary plans and precautions just like always. In that world, he would not have spoken to a powerless Kurosaki Ichigo for nearly two years.) 

(In this world, Kisuke has been listening to whispers of anger and betrayal from the part of his soul that he  _knowingly_  and  _willingly_  corrupted for most of a century, and it shows. He bends, just slightly, where he otherwise would have remained unflinching. The shadows under his eyes are not only from sleepless nights, and his sleepless nights are not solely the product of his drive for invention. In this world, Urahara Kisuke makes himself a day-to-day gigai capable of channeling reiatsu while he waits for Ichigo to wake up, and once it’s finished tries and tries to invent a way to make their world accessible even to those without the power to see on their own. Isshin asks him why he bothers, and Kisuke responds by questioning why Isshin  _doesn’t_. Every day, in the darkest corners of his mind, Benihime murmurs,  _‘Look at what we’ve done,’_  and he knows she’s right.)

(No-one is better at hating Urahara Kisuke than himself.)

And no-one is  _worse_  at hating Urahara Kisuke, it seems, than Kurosaki Ichigo — who pulls him into a tight hug the moment he realizes that even after all the other shinigami have vanished from his sight, Kisuke is still there. Remains there, puttering around the Shōten as always in a gigai whenever Ichigo comes by to visit, because he knows what it’s like to feel isolated from those you called friends and though it’s nowhere near enough to pay for what he’s done, he can at least ensure that Ichigo doesn’t have to feel quite so alone. Weekly visits become daily, and before long there’s a room in the back of the Shōten with some of Ichigo’s clothes and books, and a futon that Kisuke wasn’t really using anyways so it may as well be given a better purpose. He tries not to feel too satisfied with the fact that he can do at least this much for the boy who deserved none of the fate they had prepared for him.

And Ichigo isn’t remotely stupid — is quite sharp, in fact, though still nowhere near Kisuke’s level (but then again, that would be a rare occurrence indeed) — so it’s hardly a surprise when he follows Kisuke down to the training grounds one evening and asks, matter-of-fact, “What does your mask look like?”

“Pardon?”

“Your Hollow mask.” Something in the pit of Kisuke’s stomach curls unpleasantly and freezes, but Ichigo doesn’t seem to notice (understandable — he never notices the effect he has on people, after all). “You don’t have to tell me, I was just wondering— since they’re all different, and I’ve seen everyone’s but yours. And don’t try to tell me you don’t have one,” he adds before Kisuke can even work out the right lie to use, “I know my reiatsu sense isn’t— wasn’t that good, but I can still tell what Hollow reiatsu feels—  _felt_  like. It was there every time you used your zanpakutō, but... quiet. Like you were muffling it with something else.”

Had Kisuke accidentally let some slip past his control? Or had Ichigo, in spite of his difficulty with reiatsu control (it would have been so amusing, he reflects mournfully, to have seen him try to learn kidō), grown familiar enough with Kisuke’s that he could somehow sense past the extra layers of misdirection to see the truth hidden inside. (Of course he had — somehow, Ichigo always managed to exceed the boundaries of every field of shinigami arts, even while struggling to meet the supposed prerequisites.) The idea that someone could see through him so clearly (even if that person is  _Ichigo_ , and the fact that he’s become an exception to Kisuke’s walls is unprecedented and confusing and yet feels absolutely right) is discomforting, and his immediate reaction is to deflect, to minimize— “It’s really nowhere as impressive as those you’ve already seen, Kurosaki-san. I heard you even had quite the striking manifestation yourself, in Hueco Mundo.”

For the first time in a long, long while Ichigo flinches back, and Kisuke’s breath halts in his throat for a frightening second (surprising as it might seem to those who know him, he didn’t mean to harm — just to wonder, to turn the attention away from himself like always — and yet, like always, here he is causing damage again) before he sees the teen’s shoulders slump in acquiescence. “Seriously, just call me Ichigo, and that was— it wasn’t really  _me_  in there, mostly.”

He glances at Kisuke from under copper-toned lashes, as though asking permission to speak. (He should know by now he doesn’t need to). “When we went to rescue Inoue, one of the guys I had to fight— you remember the green-eyed one that came with the arrancar who messed up Chad’s arm, that first time?” Kisuke nods — he remembers all too clearly (the resigned horror at the realization of what Aizen had created, Benihime’s dry laughter turning to incandescent rage almost too great to contain the moment they saw what had been done). Ichigo sighs softly and looks up at the ceiling, one hand running almost anxiously through his hair. “Turns out he’s the one who kidnapped Inoue. The fourth espada, Ulquiorra Schiffer — I didn’t even learn his  _name_  until she told me afterwards. First time I tried to fight him, Grimmjow interrupted— actually broke Inoue out to heal me, just so he could get a  _fair fight_. Then the second time, he—“

The slight crack in Ichigo’s voice is almost heartbreaking (would be, if Kisuke could claim to have anything of a heart left, but he is a shell woven from analytical interest and knots of shame and can not afford to care more than he already accidentally has — or so he tries to tell himself), and he pauses a moment to compose himself before tapping a finger just below his collarbone. “—he shot a hole straight through me, right about here. I think I was legitimately dead for about a minute or two — not even Inoue could fix it.”

(This is  _Kisuke’s fault_. He’d sent them in, just children determined to do what had to be done, and this was the result. That blood was on  _his_  hands.) 

Ichigo grimaces, eyes flickering to Kisuke’s and away again. “I just remember feeling absolutely enraged, because Inoue was scared and I needed to protect her. And when I came to— when I came back to myself—“ He laughs ruefully, burying his face in one faintly trembling hand. “Ishida’s missing a  _hand_  and has my sword  _stuck through his stomach_ , and half of Ulquiorra’s — the espada, half of his limbs had just been  _torn off_. I don’t remember any of it. Inoue  _cried_  when he disintegrated, because even the most advanced regeneration I’ve ever  _seen_  couldn’t keep up with the damage, and to think that I caused it? I don’t know how either of them could stand to talk to me, after that— I mean, I guess they can’t now, but that’s okay.” 

And Kisuke wants to tell him that it’s  _not_  okay, that it doesn’t  _have_  to be okay— that he doesn’t deserve to be blamed for a monster he never asked for (a monster Kisuke created, and  _god hasn’t he done enough damage already_ ). But he’s never been good with emotions or feelings or sentiment — he’d done his best to purge himself of those long before he destroyed half of his own soul — so instead he goes for the first distraction he can think of.

This gigai was made to channel his reiatsu —  _all_  of it. And the pinnacle of its creation, the part that had taken him the better part of a week to formulate, was a specialized kidō designed to force any reiatsu-based manifestations into visible, tangible form. It had been meant more for demonstrative purposes — ensuring that if Ichigo got caught up in something (because nobody but perhaps Isshin, always just a bit blind to the person his son has become, really believed Ichigo would just stop getting into situations once his powers were gone), he would have at least one visual cue to work off of — but showing off bakudo is hardly the limit of its capabilities.

“Ichigo, you wanted to see my mask.” When he looks up, surprised, Kisuke steels his nerves (how long has it been since he summoned this power with intent, with  _control_ ) and pulls a resolutely still hand over his face. The reiatsu flows outward slowly, just enough of a trickle to manifest the bone now covering all but his eyes, and he feels the acid-rough laughter in the marrow of his bones. Ichigo stares at him with a hesitant, curious gaze, and Kisuke does not flinch or tremble. He will not. “Please, observe as you like.”

Ichigo’s eyes are blown wide, the tension for once gone from his expression as he slowly takes in the sight before him. His face fills with wonder, and Kisuke doesn’t understand. (In the back of his mind, in the bitterness in his veins, Benihime is silent. Both of them are waiting, anticipating, perfectly and intimately in sync for the first time in almost a century). Ichigo steps forward slowly, then quicker, and when his fingers reach up to hover almost tentatively over the surface of the mask there’s something almost akin to a smile tugging at his lips. 

“May I?”

And though he doesn’t bend, doesn’t allow himself closeness or vulnerability any longer, Kisuke feels something both foreign and familiar flutter in his chest. “Of course.” His voice carries the same rasp that Benihime’s has had for nearly a hundred years, and he can’t quite restrain the wince (a reminder of his mistake, of what he’d done  _knowingly_  and  _willingly_  to his own soul, a reminder that Urahara Kisuke was a monster long before he chose to become his own test subject). Taking a deep breath, he steels himself against the eerie echo of his voice and the strange sensation of something that was once asleep waking and beginning to beat its wings beneath his sternum. “Please, go ahead.”

There’s no sensation in the mask — it’s a manifestation of reiatsu made physical, so there’s no attachment linking it to any part of his physical nervous system — but Ichigo’s quiet inhale as his fingers make contact is all too audible in the empty chamber. Kisuke holds himself as still as possible, muscles locked into place and breathing stifled to silence, as his erstwhile student slowly examines the sharp edges and smooth curves of bone covering his face. Fingertips brush against his cheekbones (his heart stutters and he doesn’t understand why) as they hook around the back of the mask and pull it away, and while he allows himself to inhale once more Ichigo stares down at the object held in his hands. 

When he speaks, his voice is quieter than usual (though really, he’s been quieter overall since the loss of his powers, and Kisuke doesn’t blame him). “I never would have thought I’d be happy to touch one of these again, after everything that’s happened. But…” He traces the edge of the mask with one finger, and the word that comes to Kisuke’s mind is ‘reverent’ (and he doesn’t quite know where to go from there, because everything here is diverging from his plans and expectations and he’s not used to that, doesn’t quite know how to respond to surprises). “You know, it’s proof that it did happen. That everything we did, everything we went through… it’s like this is proof that it was  _real_.” 

Ichigo pauses, thinking, before slowly looking up to meet Kisuke’s eyes again. “Shinji told me, you know. What happened.”

That’s fine. This, Kisuke can deal with. “That’s good. I’m sure his summary of the events would have been rather more enlightening than mine, considering—"

“Not about Aizen.” And there’s Ichigo, as always, never making things easy (but always making them interesting). “I mean he told me what happened to you. The Hollowfication, that is.”  

(Kisuke freezes. Which is to say, on the outside he continues smiling as airily as possible, one hand on Benihime’s hilt and the other in his pocket, and on the inside he fills with ice. His zanpakutō laughs harshly in the back of their shared mind.)

“And I get why you don’t want to talk about it.” While he speaks, Ichigo’s focus is still on the mask in his hands, expression more thoughtful than anything. Like this is something he’s meant to say for a while, and like he needs to say something to fill a space inside himself — and  _oh_ , Kisuke knows that sensation so well he almost aches to see it mirrored on the face of someone who never should have had to feel that way. “Not gonna lie, it was really tough to go through that without understanding what was happening to me, and I’m probably still going to be a bit freaked out by it for a while. But I was thinking— it freaked me out when I didn’t know anything except that I was getting my powers back, so I kind of figure it must have been way worse to go through that knowing  _exactly_  what was happening to you.”

He looks back up. “And you’re a shady bastard, and you almost never tell people what you’re plotting until they’re already tangled up, but— but if you ask me, Hollowfying yourself in order to test ways to cure the Vizards so that if something went wrong, they wouldn’t get hurt further?” Ichigo shrugs in his normal, let’s-pretend-I-care-less-than-I-really-do manner. “That’s really brave. And I don’t— Shinji and the others, they didn’t— none of us  _blame_  you.” 

Kisuke wants to laugh. Were he a more emotional person, he might want to cry (but that’s something he hasn’t done for a long, long time). There are too many thoughts rising to mind, tangled among each other and trailing off into different directions like strands of a spiderweb. He’s grateful, and also off-balance, and a large part of him wants to erase this entire conversation because his heart is beating too rapidly and Benihime doesn’t feel like betrayal and for  _once—_  for once he doesn’t understand  _why_. All he knows is that Ichigo is holding a representation of the darkest part of his soul (not of his past — his past has always been blood-stained, the Hollow didn’t change  _that_ ) like it’s something of value, that Ichigo is standing barely a foot away from him and offering words that almost sound like forgiveness. (That for all they’d done to Ichigo, he still believes in them.)

(That the very least Kisuke can do is earn that belief — properly.) 

So he fishes into his pocket for the prototype he’d taken to carrying, always ready for tinkering or fixing or the next big idea, and reaches out to press it silently into Ichigo’s hands. A slim pair of glasses, thin frames and slightly thick lenses, edged in thin lines of crimson that an ordinary human won’t be able to see. “This is something I’ve been working on recently.” No need to quantify — no need to reveal that Kisuke’s been planning and fixing the kidō and technology for these since almost the moment Ichigo’s reiatsu began to disappear. “Put them on, and we’ll perform a trial run — one, I promise, which  _won’t_  turn you into a Hollow again.”

That startles a laugh out of Ichigo, who manages to slip the glasses on single-handed while still holding onto Kisuke’s Hollow mask with the other. He blinks a few times once they’re settled, as though trying to figure out what their purpose is, and Kisuke forces himself to breathe normally as he fishes out a gikongan dispenser and pops one of the small pills into his mouth. He lets the gigai slump to the ground — he’s not using a conscious gikongan, after all, since the gigai doesn’t need to cover for his absences — and steps a few feet to the side of it, waiting with a facade of patience (that he in no way feels) for Ichigo to look back at him.

“Getabōshi? You okay?” For a moment, it seems as though they haven’t worked — Ichigo immediately turns to the abandoned gigai, expression less concerned than mildly puzzled, and Kisuke is already starting to run through how best to restructure the kidō interweaves when brown eyes flicker up and lock onto his face. That emotion almost akin to wonder stretches across Ichigo’s face as he takes off the glasses and puts them back on, looking over and then through the frames repeatedly as though trying to confirm what he sees. “—is that you? You’re kinda see-through, but I can actually— I mean, if that’s— uh, nod if that’s you?”

Kisuke nods, because he hasn’t yet figured out how to add other sensory components to the device, and watches Ichigo’s cheeks tug into a rare smile that stretches nearly ear-to-ear. He takes a few moments to slip back into the gigai, because the glasses aren’t anywhere close to complete and thus far can only help with the visual stimulus, and almost the moment he’s stood and brushed himself off there are arms flung around his shoulders with enough force that he staggers a half-step back. Ichigo’s hair is surprisingly soft against his cheek, and Kisuke finds himself unsure of what to do for a few brief moments before he remembers how to hug back. It’s a little awkward — neither of them are naturally affectionate people, for the most part — and the frames of the glasses Ichigo’s still wearing are jabbing a bit painfully into Kisuke’s neck, but at the same time it feels a little like there is a chance of a brighter tomorrow for both of them. 

Tactfully not saying anything when Ichigo’s shoulders begin to shake ever-so-slightly (more than anyone, he’s  _earned_  a good cry), Kisuke pats his back as softly as possible and begins to compose the letter he’ll send back to Soul Society with Yoruichi the next time she comes and goes. It’s a proposal he’s sure many of Ichigo’s friends in the Seireitei will agree to, even if it might take a long time. But now that Kisuke doesn’t have Aizen’s defeat to plan, he can turn his ever-whirling mind to a far better cause — giving another chance to the one person who deserves all that and more.

(In the depths of his mind, Benihime’s rasp is warmer than it’s been in a century.  _‘That’s right. Don’t you let this boy down again, Kisuke — never again. Look at him. Look at you.’_  For the first time in a long time, her words don’t taste of pain.)

( _‘Look at how much more you can do.’_ )

**Author's Note:**

> So IDK if I'll be able to do any other stuff for this event because too much procrastinated HW and not enough planning, but here's at least one fic! I have never written this fandom or these characters before, so it feels kinda like a swan dive right into the thick of things. ^^


End file.
